I’ll never forget the drive up to that little croft house near Carbost – a proper Highland adventure that started with a comedy of errors. We’d piled into the car in Inverness, buzzing with that daft excitement of heading to Skye, only for the satnav to chuck a wobbly halfway through. It sent us down a single-track road that turned into what felt like a sheep’s private runway, complete with a ewe staring us down like we’d gatecrashed her picnic. A quick reverse manoeuvre (with me yelling directions from the passenger seat) and we were back on track, hearts racing but grinning like idiots. By the time we crested the hill and spotted the place nestled against the hillside, any stress melted away. First impressions? Pure magic – cosy, welcoming, with views that made you want to pinch yourself.

It was one of those rare holidays where the best bit was doing bugger all, and that croft house was perfect for it. No grand plans, just lazy days stretching out like the loch below. We’d tumble out of bed late, brew a massive pot of tea, and flop into the garden with books in hand. The garden’s a proper suntrap when the weather plays ball – which it did more than not – surrounded by that wild Skye greenery that smells like fresh rain and freedom. I’d spend hours parked on a lounger, nose in a battered paperback, listening to the buzz of bees and the distant call of gulls. My other half would nod off with a magazine over his face, and the kids (not so little now) would sprawl out sketching or fiddling with pebbles they’d collected. It was blissfully unproductive, the kind of slowing down you don’t realise you’ve been craving till you’re in it.

A gentle wander down to Fiscavaig Beach became our daily ritual, just a short stroll away. Nothing strenuous – we’d amble along, paddling in the shallows, beachcombing for bits of sea glass or those twisty shells that look like they’ve got stories to tell. The coastline there is raw and rugged, but peaceful as anything; you feel miles from the world, even though Carbost’s just three miles up the road. We’d linger, feet in the cool water, chatting about nothing much, before heading back for lunch. Evenings were for pottering in the garden again, maybe a wee dram from the Talisker Distillery in the village if we fancied a micro-adventure – their tours are a hoot if you’re into that peaty magic, but we mostly saved our energy for stargazing from the patio.

Looking back, it’s funny how I always pack too much – novels I never crack open, grand walking boots for hikes that stay in the boot. This trip was a gentle nudge: sometimes the joy’s in the pause, in letting the Highlands wrap around you like a cosy blanket. No rush, no lists, just us and that croft house, soaking up the quiet. If you’re after proper relaxation with a side of Skye sparkle, you won’t go far wrong here. We’re already plotting a return.